


Apologetic

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Apologies, F/M, Guilt, Introspection, Post-Canon, References to Canon, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:25:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: What's the use of an apology, when words can't really heal? (Takes place after Need, but not a close-knit sequel)





	Apologetic

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: 
> 
> This oneshot can technically take place after Need, but you don’t have to read it to understand what’s happening here.

Apologies seem fruitless, and she’s not even sure if she’s sorry.

            There’s a wicked sort of grace that comes with fastening shackles around your former coworker and lover, though _love_ r is, in itself, an improper term. They both made sure no love could grow between them, and any unwarranted emotions he had would be—should be—sliced into pieces with each _snick_ of the oiled lock around his ankles. Her own feelings were… nothing. She was numb to the thought. Perhaps it was best.

            “I suppose I was mistaken about you.” The locks are in place; she checks to make absolutely sure they’re attached to the wall, though the odds of his trying to escape are slim to none. He’s too _noble_ for that sort of thing. It makes her sick, though not in the way she thought she’d be. She really believed he could figure it out. He had been, he _was_ so close! The answer was touching his fingertips, if he would just reach out and grab it. But he wouldn’t, and he never would. That was an error on her part, for ever thinking that he’d willingly open his eyes against the man he called his lord and master.

            “Then you’ll leave me here, along with your other mistakes.” The words are icy, even in the damp, unhealthy chill of the dungeon cell. She pauses, her eyes focused on her hands. Her jaw tightens, and she feels the need to slap him. _Hard_. But she’s not gone unnoticed for so long by sheer luck. A simple swallow, a relaxing of her shoulder muscles, is enough to bring her back into a state of perfect calm. She refuses to look at the walls where they coupled, ignores the clenched fists resting on his knees. It’s only when she stands, meeting his eyes, that she feels the first stirrings of what might be regret. His expression is as emotionless, as empty as her own. But his eyes tell more than enough; he was never good enough, never collected enough, to hide everything. Not the way she can.

            _Why are you even angry? Is **this** the betrayal beyond your understanding? Is **this** your breaking point, Sir? _

            “Think as you like, Sir Barnham. But I do believe you’re reading too far into things.” His mask breaks, only just: a twinge of pain around his eyes, an involuntary twist of his mouth. That hurt him, it seems. She holds back a sigh; perhaps it _was_ a mistake to think that he could keep things as separate as she had. What they did, what little they had, it didn’t mean anything. It was just… passing time. Stress relief.

            “Witch.” The word is a vile hiss, but it’s also just another tell. It’s the most potent of Labyrinthian slurs, one on par with the bitterest of curses, not mentioned in polite society and certainly not deemed appropriate enough to throw at one’s boss. To say someone is a witch is to wish death upon them: a fiery, merciless death.

            It’s the truth, but why does it hurt far worse than anything else he could have said?

            “Enjoy your night, Zacharias Barnham.” Separating limbs from a body is dangerous, and can cause death. The remainder of the limb must be cauterized, burning away any pain-causing nerves and marking it as a dead end. She turned on her heel and left the dungeon, closing the cell door behind her and walking up the stairs the same way she had for years past.

            The fire in her throat, in her eyes, in her chest—she’s merely burning useless stumps.

* * *

It was over. Her dreams had fallen. _She_ had fallen.

            The sun is warm, signaling a hot day, and her hair was already sticking to her neck. Her clothes smelled of ash, her fingers still burn with the pain of holding onto the rotting wood of the bell tower; her eyes are bleary with lack of sleep. Mr. Cantabella’s hand on her shoulder makes it itch, deep beneath her skin. Espella’s laughter hurts her ears.

            “Milady Darklaw.” A knight, scrawny and pale, addresses her. His helmet is in his hands, and without the owl motif she can see he’s barely older than she is. His eyes are a brilliant green, and she notes, however faintly, that she doesn’t know what half of them look like underneath their helmets. She’s never paid that close attention.  “Sir Barnham… in the dungeon….” It’s a question that he’s too shy—or too afraid—to ask.

            “I’ll take care of it.” He pauses, licks his lips, and then nods.

            “As you like.” He rejoins the crowd swarming around the bell tower, chattering excitedly and reuniting with the bewildered Shades that keep trickling out from the forest and into town. Espella and the others have left for the bakery along with that cat, and she’s lost Mr. Cantabella somewhere. She looks wearily at the faces, unable to pick out a single one. They all ignore her, or avoid her; either way, it’s almost _too_ easy to slip away from the crowd and into the creeping shadows of dawn.

            The Courthouse is empty, and thankfully silent. She stands for a moment in the foyer, listening to the absence of jeers and crackling flames. A question stands in the back of her mind— _what will happen to all of this now?_ —but it’s too much to think about. She’s weak, tired of answers. She’s had more than enough of truth for one day.

            He sits on the bench, staring at the wall without seeing it. He turns to see who’s opening the door, his mouth twisting in a scowl that immediately falls when he catches sight of her face. She says nothing—what can be said?—and walks to him, drawing the key from within her black uniform. She kneels, unlocks the shackles from his ankles.

            “You are… free to go.” Her voice is brittle, hoarse.

            “What?” She turns to go, tossing the key against the wall. She won’t need it anymore. These doors will never be locked again. “But what of my sentence? Am I not convicted of high treason?” He’s incredulous, and rightly so. She shakes her head, still heading for the door. He falters, and then chases her into the hall. “What’s all the shouting? What have I missed?”

            “They are… they are celebrating the death of Bezella.” It’s the truth.

            “So.” His voice is low, resigned. He always speaks of witch trials in that sort of tone. Repentant, and yet firm in his resolutions. “Ms. Cantabella, she _was_ —”

            “Espella Cantabella is alive.” The implication claws at her beating, aching heart. She hears his gasp, but it doesn’t quite register.

            “Then… who?” The answer burns in her, scalding her tongue so that she can’t get it out. She turns halfway, unable to look him in the eyes. She doesn’t deserve that sort of privilege anymore.

            “Ask the man we once called the Storyteller.”

            “But—he is dead!” She turns back, continues walking. Her footsteps make the only sound in the hall. “Is he not?” She climbs the stairs without another word, walking into the sun.

            _Is… he? Is this how the Story really ends, with everyone dead?_

_Once upon a time there was a witch, a knight, a High Inquisitor, and a Storyteller…._

* * *

“I thought you might be here.” The voice, creaking and aged, once filled her with a fury that knew no end. Now, it barely registers against the growing void in the pit of her stomach.

            “I don’t know why I came.” She doesn’t turn to face him, unable to look away from the misty, cloud-fogged glass. The sun beams so brightly here, casting beautiful circles and lines along the posh carpeting. The Audience Room is _his_ space, but it’s also a forbidden area. No one would come here to bother her. Perhaps that’s why she chose it: for it’s solitude.

            “Eve, you should be resting.” A few footsteps, slow and frail. She wondered why she couldn’t hear the pain in them, these months past. She remembered, now, all the time he clutched at his side, or stumbled a little on the stairs to the float. He was weakening in his infirmity, but he’d hidden it well enough that she hadn’t noticed. Or maybe… maybe she just didn’t want to notice. Maybe she hadn’t cared.

            “Hmm.”

            “You’re tired and… you’ve been crying.” He was beside her now, the dark folds of his robe playing in and out of sight in her peripherals. “I’d… I’d like to apologize to you, for calling you evil. That was wrong of me.”

            “Please. Enough apologizing for one morning.” She scrubs at her face with both hands. “Please.”

            “Eve.” She senses, without looking, that he wants to touch her, to comfort her, but doesn’t know how. It’s better, then. She doesn’t like the feeling of his hand, the weight of his pity. “Why are you crying? Please… humor an old man. It was so long ago; don’t feel bad for what—for anything you—Eve, don’t let yourself fall into the same trap Espella did. I’m begging you.” _Why, because you don’t want to deal with it?_ The words taste disgusting, even in her mind. “What’s wrong?”

            “It’s just… It’s all over.” Another tear, as unbidden and unwanted as the ones that came before it, slips down her cheek. Merciful heavens be thanked that it’s not the cheek he can see.

            “Yes. It’s all over,” he agrees, though his view of the words was more positive than hers. “We can start our lives over.”

            “No.” She’s on her feet now, bile or words or pain bubbling up in her throat until she can’t breathe. “ _No_.”

            “What do you—?”

            “Labyrinthia was ‘starting our lives over’. Those were your exact words. We’re not _starting them over_. We’re continuing them. You can’t just… keep erasing people’s pain! They have to be responsible for their actions, even if—” He was staring at her with such sad, kind sympathy that it hurt, almost as much as being called a witch by the man she—no, she wouldn’t think of that. “Even if it’s pain beyond measure. Even if it’s me, this time.”

            “You’re right, of course.” His hand reaches for hers, stops midair, and falls back to his side. “I should have chosen better words. I suppose I’m used to generalities, writing for an entire town for so long….” He shook his head before removing his mask, caressing the molded surface before placing it on his desk. “I only meant that we can live for the future, now that the secrets we’ve been harboring for so long are out amidst the public.”

            “Eve,” Without the mask, he looks more like a feeble old man than ever. He’s not her father, not in the slightest. But his expression is fatherly, and she realizes—for the first time, in fact—that he feels for her like a daughter. It’s a one-sided care, for the moment at least, and it makes her slightly uncomfortable rather than comforted. “We’ve lived in the past for too long. We’ve got to turn towards tomorrow. It’s the only way to heal.” His eyes drop to her hand, the scar of fire hidden by her glove.

            “I can never take it back,” she whispers, the words settling on her shoulders. Her personal burden. “Any of it.” He thinks she speaks only of the fire, of her crimes against the town. But her mind is elsewhere, on a lone dungeon cell, on an insult spat in her face, born of broken trust.

            “Neither can I,” he admits softly. “But we can start making up for it. Together.” He holds his hand out, this time in a businesslike manner. “We can rebuild this town into something new, and—if the fates will have it—something better.” It’s cool when she takes it, the hand of a sick man. She closes her eyes as she shakes, swallowing back her sadness for the moment.

            _Just because you didn’t know then, doesn’t mean you don’t know now. Somehow, someway, you can make it up to Mr. Cantabella. And Espella._

 _And… maybe even him too._  

* * *

Everyone is excited about reconstruction. The town is abuzz with it, wanting to know how they can help. The past ten years, to them, were filled with fear—it’s the truth. But it was also filled with joy, with laughter and tears alike. It was filled with life and love, and to rebuild it in a new image is more than anyone could have hoped for. Mr. Cantabella is swamped with new ideas, suggestions, offers to volunteer. As his surgery grows near, it becomes overwhelming to the man, and she takes the brunt of the work. This time, however, it’s not just out of habit.

People are still skittish of her. They still call her milady, High Inquisitor, Ms. Darklaw. No one can remember Belduke, since Belduke was the _alchemist_ and it seems absurd, in their eyes, to have the two linked. The Shades reverently refer to her as miss or madam, or anything they can think of. But they all come anyway, despite what they may think or feel. And slowly, their nervous smiles shift to shy ones, and then honest, friendly ones. The children come to her instead of scuttling away over the cobblestones. A little redheaded girl—Petal, she says her name is—timidly admits that she wants to be just like her someday. Her brother is shaking in his shoes, but says around his tears that he’ll protect her if she’d like.

It’s easier to connect with them, somehow. Perhaps being secretive took more of a toll on her than she thought. At first, it’s a forced cheer, trying to at least make them less afraid of the woman who used to walk the shadows, watching for witch activity. But soon she allows more emotions to show, allows herself to get frustrated when something doesn’t go right. No one leaves; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. Their shared emotions make them closer as a town. She finds herself among… _friends_. 

There’s one face, however, that she avoids if she can. She’s already told Espella that everyone, even certain redheads, can be volunteer workers. She has no clue why Espella is even _talking_ to him, since she’s pretty sure the girl used to be wary, if not outright afraid, of all the knights. But it’s easier than having him ask her, so she lets it slide.

She ducks every time he passes by. Alleys are everywhere in Labyrinthia, more for the Shade’s benefit than the townspeople’s. It’s easy to swing down a side road or fold herself behind a stack of lumber or a mountain of bricks, pretending to adjust the strap of her shoe or finding sudden interest in the ground. She finds excuses to make a quick exit if she even _thinks_ that she sees him.

At first, she wonders at herself. Why bother? He probably doesn’t wish to speak to her any more than she does to him. After all, it was _his_ pain to bear, and she the pain-giver. Can’t they have a distant, nonexistent relationship? Can she not give him a civil hello and be done with it? It would be easier, wouldn’t it, than running away every time his fiery locks come around the corner.

She could even say that it was mere humiliation. That the thought of having to apologize to him, of all people, is too much to bear. But it goes deeper than that. The truth was that no matter how badly she burned, no matter how many hot tears slid down her face, she couldn’t completely cauterize the wound. It was still open, and as long as she held memories of him, she was sure that it would remain open. The nerves were alive, and they hurt with every passing thought of him. The mere inclination that he was in the same town as her, thinking ill of her, hating her— _that_ was pain beyond measure. And she wasn’t entirely sure why it was so.

Perhaps that was the reason to avoid him, then. She already hurts enough, and it was human nature to avoid more discomfort than was necessary. So when he calls after her, one late evening when she was headed home, she feigns deafness. Until he takes it a step further.

“Miss Eve!” He is the first, outside of the Cantabellas and Mrs. Eclaire, to say her name. Her _real_ name. A part of her wondered, always wondered, what that single syllable would sound like coming from him. It stops her in the way ‘Lady Darklaw’ would not, and she finds herself frozen in the midst of the street. “Miss Eve,” he pants again, having to run to catch up to her. “A moment of your time.”

“I—”

“Please.” It’s the ‘please’ that does it. _Best to get it over with, anyway._ She’s nothing if not brave, and turns to face him with a mask already half-rusty with disuse, though it’s only been a few weeks.

“What is it?” Her voice sounds colder than she means it to be, a habitual guard against anything he could say. She’s only human, after all.

“I’ve been hoping that we could… talk.” His eyes flit to the buildings, as though expecting nosy faces at the darkened, shuttered windows. “Erm, I’ve got a question. Nay, a request. I think.” A request? She can’t think of anything it might be, not right off the bat. She stares at him, but as always his face gives nothing away. Even his eyes, as open as they are, are curiously enigmatic. Normally she can read him like a book, but other than a glinting determination… nothing.

“Well? Out with it.” She resists the urge to cross her arms, to hold herself. He stands a moment longer, jaw working, before bowing in a polite, formal manner.

“Please allow me to be your assistant Inquisitor once more!”

“W-what?” She’s taken aback by the booming, nervous tone. And the question itself is— _I don’t understand!_

“I know that the Inquisition is no more, but…” his hands clench at his sides, his eyes focused on her sandals. “I want to work with you again! I know I can be of help, and perhaps together we might… that is, if I’m being too forward….” He jerks his head up with a final, almost violent motion. “Please let me be of use to you, Lady D—Miss Eve!” When she still doesn’t reply—she can’t think up a good one, and any questions in her mind seem too silly to ask—he speaks. “I asked The Storyteller, but he said ‘twas your decision and that I should speak to you. I told him that I thought—that is, I knew you were avoiding me, but he was adamant.” His voice dropped. “I don’t blame you for doing so.”

“I haven’t—” It’s a lie and they both know it, so she drops the sentence. “I didn’t think you’d want to work with me.” This is more along the lines of truth, though still withholding information. “Not after… everything.” They’re both quiet, wrapped up in their own thoughts and problems. Then he clears his throat, offering her a quick smile.

“I would like to work with you again. I would like… very much… to be your friend.” _Friend._ A clear boundary, not like the muddled lines of sometimes equal, sometimes superior/subordinate, mostly antagonistic coworkers. She can work with friend. She knows the limits of friend. Friend is easy, achievable. And it would be nice to have someone whose limits she knew already, who wouldn’t need to move anything extra into the office, whose moods she could work around.

“I—yes, of course.” It’s a risk, but this is a step up from mere civility, and she’s willing to take it. “Come by the office tomorrow and we’ll—er, get started.”

“Right, of course.” He grins, and she can see he really is happy to work with her. It’s odd, considering the way she treated him the night of the trial, but it’s not unwelcome. “You can count on me.”

* * *

_Stupid, **stupid** man! _

Why could he have let things be? Why did he have to ruin what was… not perfect, but as near to it as she could have hoped to be? She sits at her desk, staring down at the present, his present—lumpy, misshapen, unflattering, stale, day old present.

He was her friend. Friends gave each other presents, of course. Espella had given her a present. Mr. Layton had given her a present. Luke, Ms. Fey, and Mr. Wright had all given her presents. But they hadn’t stood frozen for an hour. They hadn’t looked so nervous, so eager, so hopeful… so crestfallen. They hadn’t watched her with those damn _readable_ eyes when she posed like they asked. They hadn’t given her a smile and a little wave as they all left together for the bakery.

They hadn’t made things confusing again.

It’s not like he’d outright said anything. He might not have even meant much by it, not consciously. They never spoke of their trysts, never mentioned used to happen in the dungeons, what happened the night of the trial. He made as much an effort as she to keep things light, amicable, easygoing. To be friendly. And if Mrs. Eclaire made an aside about flirting, if Mr. Cantabella watched them a little more sharply, if Espella tried to hide the starry look in her eyes whenever she hinted at something more than friends—all of it was laughed off with a shrug, as though they’d never been anything other than what they were now.

Maybe it was _her_ reading too far into things. Maybe he’d only meant it as a gift between friends. Surely that was all, wasn’t it? _But why_ , a little voice inside her whispered. _Why act so timid about it, if it was a simple gift? Was it really about Ms. Primstone’s lessons, or was that just an excuse to save face?_ Would he be interested in being more than friends? Would she?

 It was a frightening thought. Friends were easy. You knew where to stop, how far to tease, what to say and how to say it. You could easily apologize for stepping out of line. You built up a measure of trust. You laughed about the same things, threatened without really meaning any of it, shared secret jokes and phrases.

But all of that went out the window with more-than-friends. _More_ than friends didn’t bounce back from sex the way they had before. Then, they’d just been together because it was convenient, and outside of the cell they’d went on as they’d been. More than friends knew how to _hurt_ each other. They held a certain power over someone, easily able to embarrass, to break a person if they wanted to. _He wouldn’t._ She thought of his eyes in the dim light of the cell, of the way he’d insulted her. _Witch._

Had he thought, back then, that _she_ wouldn’t do something like that?

* * *

She finds him on the forest path from the market to the bakery. A white apron was still over his casual clothing, and he was humming a tune as he carefully carried a pail of milk. Gathering her courage, she steps from the bushes and stands before him on the dirt road, having to look up at him without the added help of her boots.

“Miss Eve, good evening!” he says as cheerfully as ever. “Are you only just headed home?”

“I—yes.” She didn’t need to tell him that she’d spent most of the afternoon just staring at the éclair while it grew staler. “But I just wanted to say… thank you. And I’m sorry, for embarrassing you. I didn’t mean that I wasn’t flattered. And I probably should have kept the story to myself, only Espella had—”

“’Tis no matter,” he laughs. “I’m not embarrassed by it anymore. And, in hindsight, it’s an amusing tale to one who wasn’t there to witness it.” He winces at the memory. “Or partake of it.”

“Even so.” Smiling, she steps forward. “It meant a lot to me, because— because it was _your_ gift.” _No matter how unfortunate of a choice it was._ “And so... thank you.” She leans up on the balls of her feet, giving him a fleeting kiss. It’s the only thing she could think of to test her theory: if he meant the gift as a friend, then her kiss was merely a friendly one as well. Friends kissed all around the world.

Granted, it was normally on the cheek, and her lips were on his, and he didn’t seem to be breathing, or moving, and for all she knew could have been as solid stone as the fountains in the city. 

She pulls back, feeling the first telltale signs of a blush as she prepares to offer an excuse about how good of a friend he is and how she never meant to play down his birthday present. But she finds him not incredulous, or offended, but… dazed, perhaps. Stupefied. His eyes, staring over her head, finally get the message to look down at her and he swallows silently. She prepares to take a step back, to put a comfortable amount of space between them; but his hand is at the back of her head, without her knowing that it moved, and he’s drawing her in, eyes closing at his fingers grip her hair not roughly, but not quite gently either as he tilts her head back up to meet him.

They kissed before, long before, and only once at that. It had been quick and harsh, more an extra outlet for pent up aggression rather than anything else. This is different; it has heat behind it, emotion guiding the soft movement of his mouth, of her hands feeling the lines of his jaw as they creep their way up to his hair. His other hand is still gripping the handle of the bucket, but his fingers loosen and smooth where they’ve mussed her locks, following the curls down to her waist.

She breaks before he moves any lower, panting slightly as she lets her heels hit the ground. Those nerves are definitely alive, but rather than being painful they tingle in rhythm with the pounding of her heartbeat. She finds her hands clenched, nails biting into her palms as she catches her breath. Their eyes meet and she feels somewhat better to see him as affected, cheeks dark and knuckles white as they grip the pail.

“Uhm.” He clears his throat, and there’s a certain quality to his voice that puts an extra skip in her pulse. “That was, ah, certainly—” He stops, tongue flicking over his lips quickly. “That was nice.”

“Well.”

“If that’s the thanks I should expect, I may have to give you a gift every day!” he tries to joke, but it falls flat.

“No, it’s… only for birthdays.” Her joke doesn’t fare much better.

“Oh. Well… is there no other way to earn your gratitude?” Why are they still trying to joke, if neither of them is laughing? But no, here she is, answering him like a fool.

“What did you have in mind?” He’s silent, and she sees a subtle shift in his face as he thinks. She wonders if he, too, realizes the dangers of continuing down the road they’ve started.

“Perhaps a… ‘Thank you for seeing me home’, or ‘Thank you for taking me to dinner’?” He stops, and then adds quickly, “Don’t feel—we don’t have to do anything. This is just…” He clears his throat once more. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’m not expecting—I just want to get to know—I suppose what I’m asking is: would you like to?”

“I think something like that can be arranged.” He didn’t have to say it, or trip over his words _trying_ to say it. But it’s nice that he’s as anxious and uncertain as she, wanting to start from square one. Sure, it’s a risk. But they were able to be friends, and it’s not as though she _never_ felt anything but contempt towards him. He was a good worker, and he’s good in… other ways. And that kiss _was_ nice. “Maybe this weekend.”

“S-sure!” He stalls, understanding that she wants him to decide and unsure what to say. “How about Friday, after work? I’ll take you to… um… we can talk about it?” he asks sheepishly.

“We can talk about it,” she agrees. “And then, not this time, but another time,” she says hesitantly, the words clunky, “if we both want to do… something?”

“I think that can be arranged.” This time they both smile, and he shifts the pail from one hand to the other. “I should—not to hurry you, but the milk—”

“Oh, yes. I’ve got to be getting home. It’s growing dark.” They pass each other, and she’s only walked three or four feet before he calls her again.

“Miss Eve?” She turns to see him watching her, idling and spilling a little milk onto his trousers. “Um… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you.” He nods and swings around, sloshing more milk as he saunters off with a spring in his step. She leaves as well, heading for her quiet home in the fields.

Perhaps apologies weren’t always so fruitless, after all.


End file.
